The early 2020s have been marked by affliction, from the tragedy of COVID-19, to racism and police brutality, to a broad insensitivity toward others’ suffering. On the hopeful side, there have also been demonstrations of considerable love and support. Put that contrast into a novel, and exciting literature is the result. An excellent example is Small Rain, Garth Greenwell’s moving yet unsentimental third novel.

Greenwell’s unnamed protagonist, a 40-ish gay poet, has had fraught relationships with family members, among them his estranged father, a lawyer who became rich through medical malpractice cases. But the narrator has found happiness with his partner, L, a university instructor with whom he lives in Iowa.

L and the narrator kept to themselves throughout the early months of the COVID-19 pandemic. That plan is forced to change when the narrator develops stomach pain so agonizing that “on a scale of one to ten it demanded a different scale.” After initial reluctance, he goes to urgent care, where he hopes to receive a quick diagnosis and return home.

To his horror, they send him to the emergency room for imaging. When a doctor tells him, “I thought I was going to send you home with some antibiotics but you are much more interesting than that,” it’s only the beginning of a long hospital stay that includes invasive tests, endless IV bags and no certain diagnosis.

As in his previous novels Cleanness and What Belongs to You, Greenwell writes in long, discursive paragraphs that digress with philosophical asides. This book is ostensibly about the narrator’s ailment, but that’s really a construct that allows Greenwell to observe both the ills and the positive aspects of modern society, from insensitive nurses who belatedly answer the narrator’s distress call with “We do have other patients,” to the myopia that patriotism and religion can produce, to welcome gifts of generosity, most notably from a young nurse who treats the narrator as a person rather than a case study. At its core, Small Rain is a novel about life and death and about the need for empathy in a fragile world. Heady stuff, but Greenwell presents it beautifully in this lyrical work.

Ledia Xhoga’s debut novel, Misinterpretation, follows the life of a 30-something Albanian interpreter in present-day New York City. Married to Billy, a film professor at NYU whom she had met while working for the United Nations, she seems purposeful, comfortable and happy.

But underneath this unintentional charade, she struggles with memories of war and poverty from her childhood in Albania. This personal connection to the constant parade of translation clients coming in and out of her life makes it nearly impossible to set boundaries with them, and she often puts their needs before Billy’s and her own.

Things take a turn for the worse when she signs up to interpret for a Kosovar torture survivor named Alfred while also setting out to help a Kurdish poet named Leyla. Unable to stop herself from taking on Alfred and Leyla’s problems, she takes risks that put her own life and marriage on the line.

Xhoga unfolds the story in the squares and streets of New York City, and also gives a few glimpses of Albania’s capital, Tirana, to which our protagonist escapes briefly to see her aging mother and find herself. Supporting characters with diverse experiences and various social statuses provide different perspectives on the protagonist’s struggles, although disappointingly, many storylines are left without conclusions. 

It is hard to say exactly why Xhoga chose to keep her protagonist unnamed. Regardless, her narration immerses readers in the ongoing melancholy and helplessness that she feels for being unable to save every troubled person who comes her way. Questions come up repeatedly: How much of ourselves do we see in others? And how much of their pain can we ignore for our own sanity?

Misinterpretation is compassionate and well written, giving all of us a chance to consider how our histories impact the decisions we make today.

From a women’s prison in California’s Central Valley to an elite community in 1950s Cuba, novelist Rachel Kushner is a master of the singular setting and bold protagonist. Creation Lake is no exception and, in fact, raises the stakes with its cerebral take on the spy thriller. 

Brainy, ruthless and beautiful, Sadie Smith (not her real name, mind you), has made a career of undercover work exposing and identifying radical activists. Once an employee of the U.S. government, she’s gone freelance and is working for a foreign conglomerate, trying to push eco-protestors into committing acts of violence. Sadie’s latest mark is an artsy, privileged Frenchman, Lucien, who ‘met’ Sadie in Paris. Believing that their encounter was a happy accident, Lucien has asked Sadie to accompany him to a small village where his family owns property and his school friend Pascal leads Le Moulin, a small agricultural cooperative protesting corporate farming. Lucien hopes Sadie can help them translate their ideas for an English-speaking audience; Sadie’s goals are a bit different. 

The Moulinards of Le Moulin, a sketchy and disorganized bunch at best, draw influence from an older revolutionary, Bruno Lacombe, who communicates only through rambling philosophical emails sent from an underground cave. Skeptical of all modern interpretations of civilization, Bruno believes that cultivating our Neanderthal characteristics might be the only way to survive. Despite her cynicism, Sadie is drawn in by the purity of Bruno’s ideas and by the extreme choices he’s made for his life, choices that force her to reconsider her own. 

Creation Lake is no Emily in Paris: Sadie’s corner of France is stale baguettes, superhighways, cheap wine and Guns N’ Roses cover bands. Sadie herself is no less acerbic; her only weakness seems to be a reliance on booze and vanity over her surgically enhanced (but tastefully so, she reminds us) bosom. Kushner has taken the bones of the traditional spy novel and spun it into something that is as thought-provoking as it is fun, an intellectual thriller that deviously suggests there could be another fate for our disaster-bound species, should we take the time to think it through.

Though the Bosnian War and the Siege of Sarajevo may feel distant, they took place less than 30 years ago. Those terrifying moments in 1992 are vividly imagined in Priscilla Morris’ haunting novel Black Butterflies.

When the war is just beginning, Zora doesn’t believe it will last, and she stays in Sarajevo while her husband departs for England where their daughter’s family lives. As the shelling and attacks intensify, Zora—a painter and professor tied deeply to place—remains. Soon, leaving is no longer an option, and the city is divided by violence, hunger and cold. And yet, she finds ways to survive.

Black Butterflies is a story of how art sustains and gives purpose in moments of desolation and terror. It is a story of art as a connector and community maker. Zora’s determination that there is always meaning and beauty to be found is compelling, as are her efforts to maintain relationships with neighbors and friends despite their differences and the circumstances. Some of the most powerful moments of the novel come when she is working on her paintings, in how Morris renders the horror and devastation of the war through Zora’s ways of seeing and describing.

By presenting the perspective of a civilian, Morris invites readers to engage with what it means to watch a war unfold around you, and to consider art as a mechanism of survival. This novel is both devastating and beautiful, infused with a sense of hope.